


maroon jerseys

by canvases (orphan_account)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, One-Shot Collection, SemiShira Week 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7254391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/canvases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>day one: the first time semi spikes one of shirabu’s tosses, and vice versa.<br/>day two: a tale about a cottage in the heart of a forest and a curious air fae.<br/>day three: on a break-up, a box of letters, and maybe getting back together<br/>day four: shirabu kenjirou’s life, through various camera lens.<br/>day five: a quiet request in the moonlight, and the prologue to a journey.<br/>day six: war is brewing in the east. shirabu has something to prove.<br/>day seven: semi and shirabu, through the eyes of another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. just believe in me

 

“Shirabu?” Semi says, walking over to him where he’s standing by the net while he waits for Kawanishi to finish drinking his water. “Can you toss to me?”

Shirabu looks mildly surprised for a split-second, before he picks up a stray volleyball by his feet, tossing it lightly between his hands. “Aren’t you supposed to be practicing receives?”

“Yes, but Tendou – ” he glances over to the other side of the net, where the redhead is standing, talking animatedly to a first year, his hands moving rapidly. “ – found someone who reads some kind of manga he likes, and told me to practice spikes with you for him.”

“Oh,” Shirabu says, shifting the ball in his palms, “Alright, then.”

Kawanishi jogs up to them, glancing at the two setters. “…Do you want me to block?”

Semi grins. “Sure.”

They get into position, and Semi knows that Kawanishi knows how to pick his battles.  
  
The toss isn’t close to the net, but not very far back either, and maybe it’s a bit too high for Semi’s liking, but he picks up the pace either way, and maybe it’s just him, but the noise all around seems to dim, the lights overhead shining a bit brighter as he jumps.

Kawanishi is a second too late.

The satisfying _smack_ of the ball of the call against his palm, and yet another _smack_ of the ball onto the polished hardwood floors keeps his hands a bit red and tingling seconds after he touches the ground.

He understands, now – why the coach seems to make such a big deal of this first year, why he’s been inclined to practice his serves rather than his tosses lately, until his wrist is sore and the sound of the ball smacking against the floor becomes white noise.

He’s always loved tossing the most, and serving would have to be a close second – spiking and receiving and blocking mostly blur together, none particularly standing out to him.

He’d have to reconsider.

“That was a really good toss, you know,” he comments, fighting a smile as he turns to Shirabu, “maybe a bit lower, next time, though?”

Shirabu blinks back at him, looking mildly surprised yet again, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck and zigzagging down his jersey, because they aren’t on the best of terms and he wasn’t quite expecting such genuine praise. “Thank you,” he says, glancing to the other side of the net, where the ball is rolling across the floor. “Noted.”

It may be the first time he ever spiked one of Shirabu’s tosses, but he allows himself to smile, because it’s been awhile since he last appreciated the adrenaline singing in his veins when he spiked.

(It’s certainly not the last time, either.)

 

  
/

 

  
The first time Shirabu spikes one of Semi’s tosses is during a practice match.

It’s the second set, and they’re currently tied (14-14) and Semi is being switched in as a pinch server, with Tendou yelling “Nice serve!” as they make the exchange.

Semi’s serves have been getting better and better lately, but it’s still in need of polishing because, against university teams, they aren’t enough for a service ace. Nonetheless, it sends the opposite team in a disarray, but one of the wing spikers spikes, aiming for him.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth, making the receive nonetheless.

The toss is Semi’s, and Shirabu reels over the options: Tendou isn’t around, of course, so it’s a no-go. The opposing team has been aiming for Kawanishi the whole game so far, and he looks less bored and more tired than usual – he should be switched out, too, he’s running out of steam. Reon isn’t ready for a spike. So it’s Ushijima, of course –

“Shirabu!”

His shock barely lasts a second, because he remembers how reckless Semi can be – it’s not unlikely for him to do this, to toss to him despite the fact that he rarely practices spiking, and that their unstoppable ace is already in a spiking position – and jumps, flicking his wrist and slamming the ball down, just shy of their libero’s reach.

He turns to Semi despite everything, and his senior already has a hand out towards him, and he doesn’t hesitate to give him a high-five, his palm still tingling.

 

  
/

 

  
Everyone climbs onto the bus afterwards, some their limbs aching – they were expecting to have one match, but they had some time left and the opposite team demanded that they play another, then another, after that – and it stretched out longer than anyone expected.

Shirabu takes a seat by the window as always, placing his elbow on the armrest and resting his cheek on his warm palm. He hears someone taking the seat next to him and sighing. He turns, some words on the tip of his tongue, expecting Kawanishi’s bored eyes and seeing Semi’s half-smile instead.

“I think my control got better.” Semi comments. “Either way, those were pretty good matches.”

Shirabu turns away when feels a smile starting to bloom, and he listens to the rev of the engine, watching the houses and trees roll by slowly as they drive. “Yeah, I guess so.”

 

 

 


	2. no such fantasies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > There is a beaten-down cottage in the heart of the forest, with a fading straw roof and brick walls, an oak tree behind it, the branches stretching all around the small hut, the emerald leaves draped over it, hiding it from the rest of the world.

 

There is a beaten-down cottage in the heart of the forest, with a fading straw roof and brick walls, an oak tree behind it, the branches stretching all around the small hut, the emerald leaves draped over it, hiding it from the rest of the world.

“Does anyone live there?” Shirabu asks one day as he sits on one of the branches of a bloodgood maple, the maroon leaves swirling and scattering across his lap as he peers down.

Ushijima is tending to the sunflowers, cupping the blooms in his calloused palms and coaxing the stems to stand straight, since plants tend to droop and leaves tend to scatter in the sudden winds that seem to accompany Shirabu wherever he goes. “Why do you ask now? It’s been there very long.”

Shirabu, mildly bored, twirls a finger, a little swirl of wind gathering fallen leaves from the forest floor. “I’ve always been curious,” he says, “It just didn’t feel right to ask back then.”

Ushijima glances up at him. “Does it feel right to ask now?”

Shirabu presses his lip together, his finger slowly moving to tap against his knee instead, the little tornado dying out, the winds scattering and the leaves falling. “Yes, I suppose.”

The nymph blinks at him, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Then why don’t you go see for yourself?”

Shirabu’s eyebrows furrow as the sentence blurs in his head, the winds ruffling his hair as if to comfort him. “You knew,” he breathes, “You know who lives there. It’s always been a mystery.”

“Of course I do,” Ushijima replies simply. “He is very kind.”

“‘He?’” The wind fae muses, toying with the laces of his shirt.

“Yes,” Ushijima agrees, plucking a single sunflower and twirling it between his fingers, the sunlight peering through the thumbprints between the foliage shining, casting it in a golden glow. “You should say hello. I’m sorry, but if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. Satori will probably like this.”

“I’m sure he will.” Shirabu says, hopping of the tree branch lightly as if he was made of the air that he breathes. “I should probably be going, too.”

 

 

/

 

 

The path to the cottage is beaten-down, and the grass is starting to become overgrown, tangled with weeds and thorns from blackberry bushes, the fruit clusters of red and blue, certainly ripe, still attached to the stems.

Shirabu takes a step, but nothing more than that, because he hesitates, eyes flickering to the way the branches seem to be more protective, the leaves draped over the hut more like a door than a curtain of emeralds.

It’s ridiculous, but – it doesn’t feel right, not yet.

 _Maybe tomorrow,_ the winds whisper, _patience, child._

And so he shakes his head and turns his heel, but not before turning over to look back at the cottage that has captured his curiosity – a mystery, if you will – but does not allow him to enter. He says he won’t return the next day, but he will, because in his head, he wishes the owner of the little shack a good afternoon before the wind pushes him along as he leaves.

 

  
/

 

  
“You didn’t go yesterday?”

The tree next to him is stooping over, one of the branches nearly touching the ground, the leaves brushing the floor. Where Shirabu goes, there is calm and there is destruction. He calms down the weather and coaxes the clouds to stop raging – look, you’re wrecking the forest, the poor sprouts are shaking, calm down a little bit, yeah?

But, still – he tends to do it himself, because he doesn’t command or control the winds, he talks to it and it talks to him, and sometimes it listens, is all.

Ushijima presses a palm against the peeling bark, still staring at him, waiting for his answer patiently while listening to the birdsong overhead. “It didn’t feel right, yet.” he replies, swallowing the sweetness dripping from the final word. Yet. He’ll go back there again, today.

“Oh,” Ushijima says, “Did the winds tell you?”

“Yes. Did the trees tell you?”

The faintest of smiles tugs at the corners of Ushijima’s lips. “You know how gossipy they can get,” he replies, before turning to straighten one of the tree’s branches while saying, “No offence.”

Shirabu’s hands flutter, searching for something to do, before settling for searching for a few blueberries from the bush next to him, staining pale fingers and hands dotted with sun freckles blue and purple. “Did Tendou like the flower?”

Ushijima smiles again, a bit wider at the mention of the redhead’s name. “Yes, of course; they’re his favourite.”

 

  
/

 

  
Shirabu feels oddly nervous, wondering why he is as he hesitates, before stepping forward, the leaves rustling and parting slightly, as if to tell him to come in. He raps his knuckle against the door with chipped red paint and waits.

After several heartbeats, the door opens, and he comes face-to-face with a pair of eyes, the colour of the sky before it gets cloudy, messy hair the cover of faded sunlight but midnight black at the tips, like a collision between day and night.

“Who are you?”

Shirabu presses his lips together. “Shirabu Kenjirou,” he says, and adds, as an afterthought, “I’m a wind fae.”

The stranger in robes chuckles. “Oh, so you’re the one that Wakatoshi talks about,” he thinks aloud, before shaking his head, “I’m Semi Eita, would you like to come in for some tea?”

Shirabu hesitates, before nodding once, slowly. “If that’s alright with you.”

The stranger – Semi-san, Shirabu corrects himself – laughs a little and steps aside, holding the door open, the hinges rusty, causing it to make little creaking sounds. “It’s more than okay, come on, don’t be shy.”

“I’m not,” Shirabu mutters.

 _Don’t wreck anything_ , he says to the winds, _it seems in need of repair as is._

It laughs in response, like a thousand wind chimes, clinking ’til they rattle the stars. _Wouldn’t dream of it, Kenjirou. Now, go, little one. I certainly think that he has been waiting for you, too – perhaps he hasn’t realised it, but he has._

Shirabu doesn’t hear the last sentence, stepping inside with a polite nod.

There’s a fire crackling by the hearth, and an empty wrought-iron cauldron resting on several logs, jars full of herbs and berries, along with pouches with loose strings line the shelves by the corner near a bed, along with several antique looking books, probably a bit dusty and sticky between the pages.

“I’m a witch,” Semi says, one hand on his hip. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Shirabu glances at him briefly, before turning away again. “Why would I?”

Semi chuckles, shrugging. “There are lots of bad stories about my kind, you know,” he comments, gesturing for him to take a seat at the table on the opposite end of the room, where several spellbooks and word-filled parchments are littered, and he attempts to fix them. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to have a guest.”

“That’s fine.” Shirabu licks his lips and flicks his wrist, a single gust of breeze stacking the parchments and books, pushing them over to the side.

Semi merely grins. “Impressive,” he comments lightly, before stepping away and returning, pushing a cup of lukewarm rhubarb tea towards Shirabu, taking a seat opposite to him. “So, is there anything you wanted to talk about?”

Shirabu shakes his head. “Not really,” he mutters. “I was just curious.”

Semi nods, a half-smile on his lips. “I get that,” he replies, “I’ve seen you around while collecting ingredients, but you tend to disappear the next second.”

Shirabu blows on his tea a bit before taking a sip. “Ah, yes. The winds tends to whisk me around often. It doesn’t like staying in one place for a long time.” Semi looks a bit confused, so he adds, “I take a part of the winds with me.”

The witch nods in understanding. “Oh, I see.”

“What do you do most of the time?”

Semi’s eyes light up slightly, and he leans forward a bit. “I brew potions, make new recipes sometimes and take them into town. I like it here, though. I can find ingredients easily, plus it’s quieter.”

Shirabu bites back a laugh. “You haven’t seen Tendou-san around, then, I gather?”

Semi raises an eyebrow. “Tendou? Oh! Is he the Satori that Ushijima likes to tell me about.”

Shirabu tips his chair back slightly. “Yes, that’s the one.” He makes slight gestures with his hands as he says, “He’s a prophet of sorts, lives a bit deeper into the forest.”

“He sounds like a handful,” Semi comments, “Who let someone like that become a seer?”

Shirabu turns his head so the witch can’t see the slight smile on his lips, staring at the few flasks of bubbling liquids on the shelves. “Whoever they are, they were probably bored. He takes his duties seriously, but still.”

Semi laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“When did you first move here?” Shirabu asks out of mild curiosity and a need to fill in the silence. “I don’t really remember.”

Semi pauses, drumming his fingers against the table, stained with colours from various failed experiments. “Four years ago, maybe? Ushijima helped me make this house. I should start making repairs, soon.”

“I could help, my magic would be useful,” he offers in reply.

“Thanks, that would be helpful,” Semi says with a grin. “But you should come over more often, you know. It gets boring, sometimes, so don’t be a stranger.”

Shirabu is mildly surprised, but it hardly shows, and he nods politely instead, a slight smile in his eyes. “I will.”

After a few moments of silence and drinking the tea, nearly cold from the lack of attention they’ve been giving it, Semi says, “I feel like I’ve known you for a while now, you know? It’s so weird.”

Shirabu drums his finger against his knee, a hint of a smile on his face. “Isn’t it?” 

 

 


	3. to you, my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Dear Shirabu,
>> 
>> Huh, so we’re starting college moving in together. Time flies pretty quick, huh. It feels like just yesterday that you were the little kouhai with starry-eyes and a bad habit of tossing to Ushijima all the time.
>> 
>> Well, I’m writing this letter ‘cause it’s going to be the first of many. Maybe I’ll burn them one day, maybe I’ll let you read them, maybe you’ll find them because you’re a nosy piece of shit. Anyway, I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I hope your day went well.
>> 
>> (I promise to keep writing these.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [prompt](url). _‘i found your box of letters underneath my bed last night and because i’m a nosy motherfucker i decided to read them and it turns out they were all addressed to me and the last one was dated the day you moved out and i’m not quite sure why i thought this would be a good idea but here i am, standing on your doorstep, wondering why the fuck we’re not together anymore.’_

 

It’s been nearly four months.

Almost four months of waking up to the sunlight filtering through the window because he was so used to Semi being the one to close the curtains every month, of wondering, where it went wrong and how he could’ve fixed it, nearly three months of –

Well, almost four months without Semi, and maybe the apartment is a little bit too quiet, and maybe Shirabu is starting to move on, maybe he’s not. (He’s trying, and if it’s working, then only by a fraction.)

It’s been nearly four months when Semi closed the door on a sunny afternoon – and maybe he didn’t think that Shirabu hadn’t seen him look over his shoulder, but he did – when Shirabu finds a dusty box underneath his bed, filled with envelopes – plain white, several pieces tied together with twine, with tea-stains on the corners, pink and scented, blue and polka-dotted, you name it –

Letters. All addressed to him. 

  
/

  
Dear Shirabu,

Huh, so we’re starting college moving in together. Time flies pretty quick, huh. It feels like just yesterday that you were the little kouhai with starry-eyes and a bad habit of tossing to Ushijima all the time.

Well, I’m writing this letter ‘cause it’s going to be the first of many. Maybe I’ll burn them one day, maybe I’ll let you read them, maybe you’ll find them because you’re a nosy piece of shit. Anyway, I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I hope your day went well.

(I promise to keep writing these.)

  
/

 

  
Dear Shirabu,

So – we had another fight, huh? I’m hot headed and so are you. If only you would listen I just I’m only trying to I’m not going to say it’s all my fault, but I’m so sorry.

(It’s not our first fight and not our last, but I still love you. I think always will.)

 

 

/

 

  
Dear Shirabu,

Did you know that you sometimes toss and turn a lot when you sleep? Did you know that you have a habit of brushing your fingers along the freckles, you know, the ones around your collarbone, when you’re annoyed? Did you know that when you try not to smile, your eyes smile instead? Did you know that you always double-knot your shoelaces before practice matches? Did you know that I know so many things about you that it’s almost stupid?

Yeah, well I do.

 

  
/

 

 

I think I’m in love with you. Not just in love with you, I mean. I don’t know, I don’t know. I just am.

 

 

/

 

  
Dear Shirabu,

You passed that test, today. You know, the one you’ve been studying so hard for? I had to drag you out of your room just to make sure you were still getting fresh air, tsk. I know you were trying not to show how happy you are – honestly, no one buys your bullshit at this point – but I’m so proud of you.

Well, I’m going to make sure Tendou doesn’t make you go deaf, now. I can hear his screeching all the way here. Love you.

 

 

/

 

  
Dear Shirabu,

Tendou almost caught me, jeez. Anyway, I haven’t written in a while because I don’t really know what to write. But I promised I would keep writing, and I also promised to myself that I would until you found these or I showed you them. I like to think I keep all my promises, you know?

Okay, so, we’ve fought once so far. We made up, of course, because we always do.

Love you. I got another test to study for – our professor is out for my head, I swear – so I’ll stop now.

 

 

/

 

  
Dear Kenjirou,

So. Letters. Again, not much happened. I mean, our relationship is only ever really dramatic in public, I guess. Someone asked me how we’re still together even if we keep fighting. How weird. They don’t really know, though, I guess it makes sense.

We went on a few dates, but one of my favorite moments wasn’t a date. I think it was two weeks ago? Anyway, remember when you couldn’t sleep? You never wake me up when that happens, but you did that day, because you you wanted me to see the sunset. It really was breathtaking. Kinda like you, but I don’t know, I think you’re still far more beautiful than that.

Shit, wasn’t that just the sappiest thing. I’m really sleep deprived, right now. I’ve been living on caffeine, these past few weeks have been hell.

Oh my God, it’s almost four am and I have a class at seven. I should seriously get some sleep, I don’t even know what I’m studying for, anyway.

 

 

/

 

  
~~Shirabu~~ Kenjirou,

I don’t think we’ve had a fight that bad ~~in a while~~ ever.

 

 

/

 

Dear ~~Kenjirou~~ ~~Shirabu~~ Shirabu,

So, I’m leaving.

Huh, this is. Really painful. And. Yeah. I thought I’d write one last letter. I’m going to stop writing, because – I don’t know. Would you want to read a bunch of messages about how I miss you or still love you or shit like that? I don’t think so.

I don’t know how it came to this. Maybe I would write more if I wasn’t in such a hurry but I’m so sorry. Maybe we’ll get back together I hope so but either way, all the best in life, and I’m not being sarcastic or anything. You’ve always been a great kid. You’ve always been made to go places.

 ~~Maybe that’s why this is happening~~ ~~I don’t blame you~~ ~~Maybe a little~~

I’m keeping these letters under your bed because you clean under there probably once a year. I want you to find them. At least, I think I do. But regardless, you’ve probably read through a few of them by now. I doubt you would’ve found this one immediately, considering it’s at the bottom.

Anyway, I still love you. I’m not sorry for saying that.

(But I’ll take my leave now.)

 

/

 

 

If there’s a tear stain at the corner of the letter, no one sees it.

 

 

/

 

 

Shirabu knows that Semi has since moved out to another apartment complex, about a one to two hour drive away, next to Ushijima and Tendou (it was the latter who told him this) but what he doesn’t know is how he wound up standing at his doorstep, or why he ever thought this would be a good idea.

He rings the doorbell once, and it opens shortly after.

“Tendou, I swear I didn’t steal your manga – Ken—Shirabu?”

He swallows the lump forming in his throat at the sight of Semi and nods. “Yeah. Good afternoon, Semi-san,” he mutters and ducks his head slightly, “I wanted to come and apologize. I found the letters you wrote?”

Semi blinks at him in surprise. “Oh, I – yeah. I’m – I’m really sorry too, that was. I really missed you. And I still – ”

Shirabu nods, heart drumming against his ribcage, because Semi stops right before he finishes the sentence. “Me too,” he murmurs, “But we should maybe talk this through.”

Semi smiles at him slightly, “Yeah. Want to come in? I’m making green tea. Two sugars and no milk, right?”

He feels mildly surprised, before smiling back tentatively, managing a soft, “Yeah,” before he steps in, closing the door gently behind him with a quiet _click._

 

 


	4. the polaroid of us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shirabu has a string of polaroid photos and such hanging on his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things to note: this is mostly a story told in fragments, i'm not very proud of it, and shirabu and futakuchi are cousins. just because. thank you for reading.

 

Shirabu has a string of polaroid photos and such hanging on his door.

He likes photography quite a bit – he’s a setter, so of course his hands are steady so the pictures don’t blur – and the first half of it were taken by him when he was younger, and he found them in an old shoe box in the dusty attic when he was cleaning it out.

Of course there’s a story behind each. What’s a photo without one?

 

  
/

 

  
There’s one of a cluster of blue flowers, a little blurred among the blades of grass.

He remembers taking the picture as a seven-year-old with his father’s camera when he found such pretty flowers in his grandmother’s backyard amongst the towering trees and pretty blooms, and immediately rushed in through the the backdoor to show her.

She was in her rocking chair, and he climbed onto her lap to show her, and she smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners and forehead wrinkling, brushing the silver strands of hair out of her face with thin fingers.

“This is beautiful, Kenjirou,” she had murmured, gently running her fingers through his hair, “You want to know something?”

He peered up at her, cradling the camera on his lap. “What is it?”

“These flowers are called forget-me-nots,” she said, rocking back and forth gently, her eyes on the picture of her and her late husband on the wall, “they mean true love.”

 

  
/

 

  
There’s another one, of a dandelion.

He remembers finding it in the park, and sitting down to take a picture. His cousin, Futakuchi, running up to him and sitting down on the grass to see what he was looking at, before laughing, loud and bright. “Oh! I know!” He plucked it from the ground, holding it out to him.

He blinked, raising an eyebrow. “What’s this for, Kenji?”

He chuckled, eyes shining in the afternoon sunlight. “To make a wish, duh! Go on!”

He blinked, pursing his lips together. I wish grandmother knows that we miss her, but we know she and grandfather are back together again. He blows, and he and his cousin watch as the dandelion seeds dance in the air, out up to the cloudless sky.

 

  
/

 

  
There are a few more. Of Futakuchi and him, side-by-side, with his cousin’s arm thrown around his shoulder, laughing or grinning widely as he either looks at him or smiles, looking both exasperated and fond – there’s even one, taken by his mother, of them playing volleyball.

He remembers the way the ball flew of his fingers and straight into Futakuchi’s palm, and laughter bubbled in his throat as he smiled while listening to his cousin saying that he wanted to be the ace of his team, one day, and that he was looking forward to playing against him if the time ever came.

Of family, through the years. Of flowers and trees. Of life, through his eyes, little fragments of memories and years long past.

 

  
/

 

  
One of them is an acceptance letter, and yet another was taken by his father, of him in front of their house with a backpack slung over his shoulder in front of their house, before he left for his first year at Shiratorizawa.

He looks a little embarrassed, and he remembers that he was, his fingers curled tightly around the strap of his bag, but he’s smiling nonetheless, staring straight at the camera lens.

 

 

/

 

  
There’s another one – a selfie in Shiratorizawa’s gym, with his head forced against Futakuchi’s shoulder to fit into the picture. Futakuchi is grinning widely, flashing a peace sign. Shirabu’s smiling as well, like he can’t help it.

“I’m going to play against you one day!” His cousin had yelled when they were even younger. “It’s going to be just as great as playing with you, but my team will win.”

He had smirked a little, tilting his head at the challenge. “I’m looking forward to it, then.”

Before the match, Shirabu had stared at Futakuchi, looking at him in the eye and saying, “We’re not going easy on you, you know.”

Futakuchi had grinned, smile sharp and eyes glinting. “Don’t worry, neither will we.”

 

  
/

 

  
There’s one more, of the building where the Inter Highs were being hosted.

He was chosen as starter, and while he was excited, his nerves were on edge, praying that he would be good enough. He had taken a photo as a reminder – you can reach your dreams, but first, you need to wake up to make it a reality.

He also remembers that Semi had turned to him, raising an eyebrow. He glanced at the picture before he could tuck his phone back in his pocket, a half-smile on his lips. “I didn’t know you liked photography.”

It was one of the few times so far that they had a decent conversation. Shirabu rolled his eyes, but it lacked any malice. Instead he shrugged. “Come on, senpai, I don’t want us to be left behind.”

 

 

/

 

  
Semi is lying on his stomach on his bed one day, resting his cheek on his palm as he eyes the photos. “I knew it,” he says, “you do like photography.”

Shirabu turns from where he’s doing homework, his fingers still curled around his pen. “I never denied it,” he snipes back, raising an eyebrow.

“You should take a picture of me for once,” Semi says, “you’re really good, though. I never expected that.”

“Well now you know,” Shirabu mutters, his heart nearly stopping when Semi laughs, the afternoon sunlight trickling through the window highlighting his face and making everything golden.

He smiles, fingers reaching for his camera.

 

 

 _Click_.

 


	5. stop time right here in the moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > There’s a clearing in the forest, where a weeping willow tree’s leaves sweep the dewdrops on the blades of grass, overlooking a small pond that sparkles, spotlit by the moonlight. It’s said to be magical.

 

“Oh – Shirabu? I didn’t expect to see you here.”

There’s a clearing in the forest, where a weeping willow tree’s leaves sweep the dewdrops on the blades of grass, overlooking a small pond that sparkles, spotlit by the moonlight. It’s said to be magical.

And there Shirabu is standing underneath the tree, one hand tugging on the hood of his jacket absently, tossing smooth stones across the little pond with another, watching them skip and skid across the water, rippling out towards him.

Maybe it’s just Semi, but he’s the reason why the place is all the more enchanting – Shirabu may have no magic, but he seems to chase away the shadows that lurk in the foliage – and his breath catches in his throat.

“Oh, Semi-san.” He says calmly, as if he was expecting this to happen – he is the kind of person to play out every word that slips from his mouth in any possible scenario, so no one would be surprised if he knew this was coming – but doesn’t move a step. “Good evening.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.” Shirabu says, stopping over to pick up another rock, shifting it in his palm before meeting his gaze evenly. The moonlight seems to shift, little flecks of silver shining on his cheek, his hair almost silvery.

Semi rolls his eyes. _This little shit will never change_. “I don’t know, I felt like coming here.”

Shirabu shrugs and says, “I was hoping you would,” as if that wouldn’t cause any raised eyebrows, and glances up at him from his fringe, almost smirking like he was revelling in his shock.

Semi composes himself – if there’s anything he learned from Shirabu, it was that he had to mask any expressions as quick as possible, because he’s the kind of person who always seems to be one step ahead – and raises an eyebrow. “Why, then?”

Shirabu glances up, and if Semi wasn’t looking for it, he wouldn’t have noticed the barely-there blush crawling up his neck, his fingers, tugging on his hood to hide it. “Remember how I don’t have any magic?”

Semi presses his lips together – this is a taboo topic they’re touching here – and he nods.

“Well,” he says, “My therapist said that I do. I just have to find it.” He runs his nimble fingers through his hair in unmasked exasperation and confusion. “Whatever the hell that means.”

Semi rubs his hands, always warm, over his cold arms, the breeze cutting through his skin. “Okay,” he says slowly, “Okay. Were you hoping to ask me for help or…?”

Shirabu scoffs, tossing the rock into the lake and kicking at the grass. “I already know what to do.”

Semi raises an eyebrow sarcastically. “And that is…?”

Shirabu glances left, tugging on the hood of his jacket again. “My therapist suggested that I travel. A road trip. I already have a plan.” He buries his chin deeper into his jacket. “I was hoping to go this summer, actually.”

“That’s great, Shirabu. Really. But how am I involved in this?”

Shirabu rolls his eyes up to the sky, as if to say to the moon, can you believe this guy? “Semi-san,” he says slowly, as if he were talking to a child, “I was wondering if you would come with me.”

A spark of flame spirals from his fingertip in surprise, illuminating his face briefly, and Shirabu is definitely smirking now. Semi’s face flushes, and he’s glad that it’s dark. “I can never tell when you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Why me?”

“Why not?”

Semi sighs, flames threatening to dance across his fingertips at the whirlwind of emotions rushing through him. _Calm the fuck down_ , he thinks, _or you’ll burn something_. “I will, if you want me to.”

Shirabu throws his head back, exasperated. “I just said that.”

“Fine, I’ll go, I’ll go,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender, “We’ll talk more about this tomorrow, though, right? If you don’t remember, it’s the middle of the night.”

Semi almost misses the smile on Shirabu’s face, eyes gleaming in the starlight. “The middle of the night is the best time of the day, Semi-san.”

Semi chuckles and shakes his head as he takes a seat down by the lake. Shirabu stares down at him for a moment before sitting down a little to his left, resting his chin on his knees.

Semi can’t help but stare at the faint smattering of sun freckles across his face that were barely noticeable, the twitch of his fingers as he stares steadily into the crystal pool, as if searching for all the stones he’d tossed, the small, faded scar on his cheek, the blossoming purple-blue bruise on his wrist.

Shirabu turns to him, eyes narrowed, fingers curled around grass, tugging. “Why are you staring?”

He feels the blood rush to his face. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, the words rushing out of his mouth like a train wreck, “I just, fuck, I really want to kiss you right now.”

He grimaces and looks away, retracting his hand from the grass for fear of burning it. Shirabu grabs his wrist with cold fingers, a strange sensation against his always warm skin, but not at all unwelcome, and he stares at him.

Shirabu meets his gaze evenly, the barest of blushes on his cheeks, spreading slowly downwards. He wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t so close. “Shirabu? What are you – ”

His fingers loosen a bit, eyes smiling, little flecks of stardust in his eyes. “What’s stopping you?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [sad song by we the kings](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=BZsXcc_tC-o)
> 
> picture this: semi behind the wheel and shirabu with a map unfolded on his lap. shirabu scolding semi for going over the speed limit. arguing over radio stations and music. shirabu falling asleep like a normal person would, semi dozing off in the weirdest positions.arguing over whether they’re going the right way or not. “who’s holding the map, semi-san?” falling asleep under neon lights. shirabu noticing semi getting tired and muttering, “pull over, let me drive for a while.” semi falling in love with shirabu a little more while watching him lean out the window, the wind whipping his hair every which way. semi asking shirabu, “are you nervous? you haven’t found your magic yet.” and the latter begrudgingly muttering, “the journey is more important than the destination, semi-san. you said so yourself.”


	6. heading straight for the castle

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Shirabu says nothing, pressing his fingers against the cold window, breath ghosting over the glass and fogging it over. He peers into the ground below, where the gardens are being tended to, the leaves of the topiaries being trimmed and blood-red apples being picked by servants in fading, dirt-stained garments.

Further, far further, is the town. He can see the spiraling towers of the church, and the bell that’s rung for the Sunday masses, and a few straw roofs and towering trees of oak and emerald.

“Shirabu.”

He turns, raising an eyebrow. Semi is wearing his armour; pitch-black and scarred in varying places, a small and shallow wound on his cheek to match, his sword being polished somewhere.

His finger brushes over the quill tucked behind his ear, thinking back to all the scrolls waiting to be translated, messages to be delivered, letters to be written. He pushes all such thoughts aside. “There is war brewing,” he says calmly, meeting his eyes evenly, “and you tell me not to be afraid.”

Semi sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know anymore, Shirabu. What should I say?”

Shirabu shrugs one shoulder. “That you’ll lead the army well,” he tilts his head slightly, leaning back against the wall, “and that you’ll make it back alive.”

“Of course I will,” Semi retorts, pursing his lips together, “We’ll be fine.”

Shirabu’s eyes flicker to the flames dancing at his fingertips and sighs, pressing his hand against the wall and willing for them to die out. He works like this: someone who kills magic with his own and a double-edged sword for a glance. “I don’t need comforting from someone who’s just as scared as I am, if not worse.”

Semi grits his teeth.

Shirabu turns back to the glass, careful to avoid his reflection. “I’m going to fight.”

“What?”

He turns, gaze hard as the steel hidden, strapped onto Semi’s ankle – a dagger laced with poison that Shirabu had made – in case of emergencies. “I said,” he says slowly, “I’m going to help with the war.”

Semi says, “You don’t have proper training.”

Shirabu’s slight frown twists into a smile. “What an excuse,” he hums, “you know just as well as I do that everything changes the second I step onto the battlefield. Soldiers are so reliant on magic these days.”

Semi leans back and tilts his head up to the ceiling. “It’ll take them by surprise. Someone who can block out magic.”

“I need your permission to do this,” Shirabu says, “His highness already approved.”

Semi frowns at the floor. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Shirabu scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “And I don’t want the kingdom to be destroyed,” he takes a step closer, raising an eyebrow, “What do you say, general?”

Semi shakes his head, before he smiles tentatively. “I can’t say no.”

Shirabu almost laughs, smiling back instead. “I’m glad you learn quickly.”


	7. this isn’t the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Most people think that Shirabu and Semi argue and bicker constantly, that they’re relationship is loud and a bunch of starbursts of fireworks on a day-to-day basis.
>> 
>> That’s hardly accurate.

 

Your first day of the volleyball club and your first year of Shiratorizawa starts like this:

You are standing in a line with the other first years, your nerves on edge and your heartbeats quickening with each breath, but you were careful not to let it show, keeping your hands clasped and your eyes straight ahead.

You’ve been waiting for this.

After you introduced yourself, the rest of the other names and positions blurred together in your head, until somewhere in the middle of the line, where a boy with light brown hair cut into a fringe, shorter than almost everyone else, met the coach’s eyes steadily.

“Looks like a pretty boy,” the guy next to you comments, “he doesn’t seem suited to the style of volleyball here.”

You press your lips together, shrugging one shoulder, because the boy’s gaze is unusually calm and his aura simply screams confidence as he lets himself be known, his voice unwavering. “Shirabu Kenjirou,” he says with a polite nod, “I’m a setter.”

You don’t miss the way the coach lingers and nods at him before proceeding to move onto the next in line, a boy with messy light blonde hair, eyes glazed over with boredom.

You also don’t miss the way one of the second-years with light hair, dyed dark at the tips, looks at Shirabu with something in his eyes, almost as if challenging him. And you’ll be damned if you don’t feel oddly like there is a storm brewing when Shirabu’s seemingly polite smile turns into something like a smirk.

 

  
/

 

  
The first clap of thunder and the first flash of lightning comes during a match.

You’re standing by the scoreboard, with the second and third years one one side of the court, and the most promising first years on the other.

You catch the slightly frustrated glare Semi shoots Shirabu – he doesn’t miss it, either, because he smiles in an overly-polite way and says something to his upperclassman, which only seems to anger Semi further.

Nothing further happens for the first few points, thankfully, until Shirabu stretches his arms, looks straight at Semi, dead in the eye – although no one else seems to notice but him and you – and the ball flies off his fingers in a perfect arc towards Kawanishi, who flicks his wrist and taps the ball gently, pulling a feint.

The coach raises an eyebrow, nodding approvingly as you flip the scores, the first years quickly catching up to their upperclassmen at an alarming rate.

It’s Semi’s turn to serve.

He throws the ball, the soles of his shoes squeaking against the polished hardboard, and your breath catches in your throat as he jumps and slams the ball down – and you’re in awe with amount of power he puts into it – just shy of the poor libero’s reach.

Shirabu’s eyes flash, before he straightens his back. The kid is quick to anger, but he’s even faster with composing himself and keeping his chin up. Impressive.

It doesn’t matter who won, and you’re not surprised that they’re both off the court with calloused hands, red wrists and a kind of fire in their eyes.

 

  
/

 

  
Weeks pass in a similar fashion, and you remember sitting on the bench with your fingers wrapped around a water bottle, sweat rolling down your face as you reach for a towel to your left.

Reon sets the ball, and Shirabu presses his lips together, jumping to match him. His form isn’t perfect, but he’s surprisingly graceful as he spikes the ball, and you can hear him muttering something about being a setter for a goddamn reason.

The ball heads towards the empty water bottle, before Semi appears and receives it, watching it fly over the net.

Reon laughs good-naturedly, while Semi grins and Shirabu rolls his eyes, turning to Reon and saying something before heading in your direction and picking up one of the water bottles on the bench.

“You two don’t really get along, huh?” You comment, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, raising an eyebrow, but you notice the way his hands tighten around the bottle, his jaw clenching.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says evenly, “Sorry, I should get back to practicing.”

You only nod, watching his retreating figure as he heads back, saying something to Reon about maybe tossing the ball a bit lower next time, and you don’t miss the way he glances at Semi while speaking.

 

  
/

 

  
You don’t really know what happens in-between, but come Inter Highs, to no one’s surprise, Shirabu Kenjirou is chosen to play as the setter while Semi Eita will be the pinch server.

But to everyone’s shock, Semi nods at Shirabu and says, “Do your best,” before jogging up to Yamagata and asking him to stay, just for a little while, to help practice his serves – he’s been getting better lately, pulling more service aces and learning to balance out power and control.

Shirabu’s fingers tangle in the hem of his shirt, and he glances at Semi once before turning to Kawanishi, who merely blinks at him and joins him in the walk to the changing rooms.

You stay behind for a while, too. You’re not playing as a starter in the match, and you probably won’t be playing at all, but sometimes your blood misses the adrenaline, your ribcage ready for the thump-thump-thump of your heart against it, and your nerves simply sing with glee at every little thing, every little play.

That’s why you play volleyball.

Semi throws the ball high, keeping time with it as he jumps, and you dive for the receive, your elbows skidding against the floors as it hits your wrist harder than you expect it to, sending the ball flying just outside the line.

Yamagata is grinning widely, hands on his hips as Semi catches his breath and shoots you a thumbs up, and you scramble to your feet. “That was insane,” you say, rubbing at your slightly red wrist.

Yamagata laughs, loud and bright under the dim lights of the gymnasium, the sky dark outside and full of stars. “Wasn’t it?” He says, before tilting his head and raising an eyebrow, glancing at your hand. “You alright?”

You shrug one shoulder, smiling. “Yes, senpai, I’m fine.”

“One more!” Semi yells from the other side of the net, and you and Yamagata share a glance before he chuckles and shakes his head.

“Why not?” He yells back, and Semi serves, again and again and again.

 

  
/

 

  
“Move your whole body, Shirabu!” Semi yells from across the court, making your head turn. “You can’t just rely on your arms to receive, surely you know that?”

From where you are, you can’t see the look on the younger setter’s face, but he’s probably rolling his eyes. “Those two,” one of the third-years sigh, “when are they ever going to stop bickering?”

You blink and press your lips together to suppress a chuckle. “It’s how their relationship works. Besides, in their nature to snark back at everything, so you can imagine that they’d throw comments at each other back and forth.”

You watch as Semi does another one of his serves, and Shirabu takes his advice to receive it, watching the ball fly over the net. Semi laughs in pleasant surprise that his junior actually listened to him for once, and Shirabu says something you can’t hear.

“Actually,” you smile, “I think they’ve been getting along rather well, lately.”

 

  
/

 

  
Most people think that Shirabu and Semi argue and bicker constantly, that they’re relationship is loud and a bunch of starbursts of fireworks on a day-to-day basis.

That’s hardly accurate.

You learn this when you and your friends head over to the convenience store for completely destroying the first day of prelims, and you walk by the old park with the rickety swing sets and benches in dire need of a new paint job, and maybe a trim for the slightly overgrown grass.

Semi is sitting on one of the benches, taking up most of the space, one earbud in his ear while the other hangs loosely at his side, his elbow on the backrest and his cheek on his palm. Shirabu’s breaths are steady, and he sits to the side, the wind in his hair and a book on his lap.

Shirabu taps Semi’s leg, and holds up his book to point at something while Semi leans in closer to look, laughing quietly at whatever it is, and tilting his head to make a comment, skimming a finger across one of the pages.

“Oi!” One of your friends yell up ahead. “Hurry up!”

Another one laughs and jokes, “We’ll leave you if you keep lagging behind!”

“Coming!” You yell, and run to keep pace with the rest of them, laughing with the afternoon sun at your back. “Hey, wait for me!”

 


End file.
